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There’s something important to garner from the collective memory of the moon landing 50 years ago tonight, something we need to better understand about ourselves, something we need to nurture and protect about our own humanity. But we probably won’t.

My parents were newlyweds in July 1969, back from their Kauai honeymoon and holed up in a three-room apartment in Inwood, Manhattan, with one box fan wedged between the windowsill and sash. They watched the moon landing on a black-and-white television perched on a flimsy rolling cart, its spindly rabbit-eared antenna searching for a signal. They sat together in awe and heat and silence. My mother looked out her bedroom window and saw dozens of windowed city rooms like her own, all in darkness, save for the glow of moon dust and men. Walter Cronkite talked the world through the portal between past and future while they gazed at the TV screen. …

by Kathleen Harris

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Me, sitting like a tough guy on the stoop in pigtails Flatbush, Brooklyn — 1974

Tomorrow, my husband and I will take our kids to my cousin’s house to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day — or “Irish Christmas,” as he and I enjoy calling it.

I married a damn good man. Jewish by birth and Fairfield County-raised, my husband dove headfirst into a sea of thick New York accents and Irish Catholic attitudes when he first met my extended family. …


Kathleen McKitty Harris

Writer. Wife. Mommy. Smart ass.

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